But I will make him earn that happy ending. It won’t be easy for either of us. And along the way (in the first of the Millworth Manor series), he’ll learn The Importance of Being Wicked.
And so, I suspect, will I.
Best wishes,
Victoria
In this dazzling new novel, #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander welcomes you to Millworth Manor, a delightful English country estate where love is always perfectly at home....
For Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, finding a prospective bride always seemed easy. Perhaps too easy. With three broken engagements to his name, Win is the subject of endless gossip. Yet his current mission is quite noble: to hire a company to repair his family’s fire-damaged country house. Nothing disreputable in that—until the firm’s representative turns out to be a very desirable widow.
Lady Miranda Garret expected a man of Win’s reputation to be flirtatious, even charming. But the awkward truth is that she finds him thoroughly irresistible. While Miranda resides at Millworth to oversee the work, Win occupies her days, her dreams . . . and soon, her bed. For the first time, the wicked Win has fallen in love. And what began as a scandalous proposition may yet become a very different proposal....
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Victoria Alexander’s
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED,
coming in February 2013!
Prologue
March 1887
It could be worse.
The phrase repeated itself over and over in his head like the irritating refrain to a little-liked song.
Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, stared at the façade of Fairborough Hall and tried to ignore the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, a weight that had settled there since the moment late in the night when he and the rest of the household had been roused from their beds by cries of fire.
“It doesn’t look nearly as bad as I thought it would,” his cousin, Grayson Elliott, said in what he obviously meant to be a helpful manner. It wasn’t. “A bit scorched around the edges perhaps, but not bad, not bad at all.”
“No, it doesn’t look bad.” The two men stood some ten yards from the house at the foot of the circular drive that linked the long drive to the main gate. And from here, given this precise angle and in the cold light of late afternoon, there was indeed little to indicate the destruction within the stone walls of the hall. Certainly what was left of the front door was charred and the glass in most of the windows in the center section of the house had shattered, but the east and west wings appeared untouched. All in all it really didn’t look bad.
“Appearances, Cousin, are deceiving.” Win started toward the house, barely noting the puddles of soot-laden water or trampled, filthy snow or the chunks of charred wood lying about. Nor was he especially aware of the pervading aroma of smoke and acrid burned matter or the brisk breeze and his lack of suitable outer garments. “It is much worse than it looks.”
It could be worse.
“Fortunately,” he continued, “everyone in the house escaped unharmed. And no one was injured battling the blaze.”
“Something to be grateful for,” Gray said at his side.
Any number of people still milled around the building, mostly male servants: the gardener and undergardeners, the stable hands, the footmen. The hours since the fire had been discovered blurred together in an endless moment or day or eternity. Win had lost track of the time, although it was now obviously late afternoon, as well as exactly who had been here. The fire brigade from the village had responded and help had arrived from neighboring estates, but the snow had made the going slow. Still, it had also helped put out the blaze. While it was certainly cold, the lake was not frozen and the estate pumping station had supplied the water needed to fight the flames.
Win stepped over the threshold and gestured for his cousin to join him. Gray had been in London and Win had sent word to him shortly after daybreak. After all, Fairborough Hall was as much Gray’s home as it was Win’s.
Gray stepped up beside him and sucked in a hard breath. “Good God.”
“I should think this was the work of a hand considerably lower than heaven,” Win murmured. It was indeed a scene straight from hell. Or perhaps it was hell’s aftermath.
Haphazard heaps of blackened wood littered what had once been the grand entry hall. Here and there a whisper of smoke drifted upward from still-smoldering debris. A blackened skeleton was all that remained of the magnificent center stairway. The glorious ceiling with its intricate plaster moldings and painted scenes from Greek mythology was little more than a charred memory, open now to the floors above them and all the way to the scorched roof timbers.
Gray started into the house, but Win grabbed him and pulled him back. “Careful, Gray, the integrity of the floor is still in question and will be until we can get in there, start cleaning out the debris and assess the destruction.” He ran a weary hand through his sooty hair. The aroma of smoke drifted around him. Odd, he would have thought by now he was immune to the smell of smoke.
“Of course.” Gray’s shocked gaze scanned the damage. “I can’t believe how much is gone.” He glanced at his cousin. “Were any of the furnishings saved? The paintings? Uncle Roland’s books?”
“We did manage to get the family portraits and most of the paintings out, those hung low enough to reach, that is. Thanks to Mother really.” He forced a wry smile. “While Father and I and Prescott and the other male servants were trying to prevent the spread of the fire, Mother was directing the housekeeper and the maids in rescuing the paintings and whatever else she could think of.” At this point he didn’t want to consider how much had been lost. Time enough for that later. It had been nothing short of chaos, and the fact that they had rescued anything at all now seemed something of a minor miracle.
“It looks like the fire was confined to the middle section of the house.” He glanced at Win. “So the library was unaffected?”
It could be worse.
“With any luck, given its location,” Win said. “The east and west wings appear untouched, although I fear there might be a great deal of smoke damage. Oddly enough, the stone walls between the wings and the main portion of the building were widened at some point in its history, providing a fire break all the way to the roof. Father mentioned something about that when we realized the fire had been contained, but it’s not original to the building of the house. I had never given the width of those walls much thought—indeed, I’m not certain I ever noticed—but they kept the fire from spreading.”
“Wasn’t a previous earl a witness to the great fire of London? And was terrified of fire from then on?”
“Perhaps we have him to thank then.” Nonetheless, it was difficult to manage any semblance of gratitude for a long dead ancestor. Win was fairly certain allowing any emotion, even one as simple as gratitude, would open the floodgates for despair, and for that he simply didn’t have the time. “I had always thought the house was essentially unchanged from the day when it was built by the first earl. I can’t remember when.”
“1592,” Gray murmured.
“You always were good at dates.”
“I know.”
Under other circumstances, Win would have replied with something appropriately sarcastic and witty, but, at the moment, he didn’t have the strength. The fire had awoken them some fourteen hours ago. It seemed like forever.
“At least the roof is still intact,” Gray said.